


Blood In The Water

by for_the_love_of_wolves



Series: FitzSimmons AUs [9]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - World War II, Angst, Blood, Blood and Injury, Describtions of injuries, F/M, First Meetings, Getting Together, Historical, Hopeful Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Past Child Abuse, Serious Injuries, Verbal Abuse, Violence, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-21
Updated: 2019-12-21
Packaged: 2021-02-26 16:41:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21891442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/for_the_love_of_wolves/pseuds/for_the_love_of_wolves
Summary: Normandy, 1944. Fitz takes part in the invasion on D-Day and is severely injured. In a hospital in England, he meets Jemma Simmons, who is working there as a nurse.
Relationships: Leo Fitz/Jemma Simmons
Series: FitzSimmons AUs [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1120386
Comments: 7
Kudos: 42





	Blood In The Water

_Normandy, June 1944_

The ocean is calm today. A mild breeze is ruffling the smooth surface and the boat sways gently. It’s silent.

Fitz knows the silence isn’t going to last for long.

Trying to ignore the whispers around him – words of hope and fear, a prayer here and then, or empty tired sounding promises of glory – he leans over the railing and lets his gaze wander around.

The rocky landscape stretched out in front of him is stunning. The tall coastal cliffs are overgrown with bright green grass. The beaches are clean and golden. A few seagulls are flying over them, yelling jarringly. Fitz looks up at them and blinks into the sunlight. The sky is almost cloudless. A perfect marine blue.

Everything seems so peaceful. It’s almost surreal.

Fitz feels sick, when he thinks about what’s going to happen here soon.

The war makes the world losing its colors and its beauty. Humans don’t just kill each other; they kill their surroundings as well. With every passing year, it gets worse. Bombs are ripping the earth apart, trees are burning and cut through projectiles from tanks. But Fitz is certain, that nature will take everything back. It has already begun, with ivy growing over abandoned ruins and flowers shyly blooming at the edges of bomb craters.

Fitz sighs. He lays a hand on his rifle and grimaces. He hates that thing. He hates the thought of using it to take a life. He has never thought he would fight in a war. He has just turned 18 and his dreams fade away right in front of him. Out of reach. He wanted to study. Become an engineer. Build a space shuttle. Not in this life, apparently. The war has cut into the world, changed the course of life and made the future uncertain. In the beginning, everyone hoped it would be a short war. The somber memories of the last one were still very much present in society. But soon, when the bombers came and war invaded everyday life, the hopes faded. They lost their optimism in the bomb shelters, when the ground shook and cement trickled on their heads, while they were listening to the sharp whistling that announced another deafening explosion. 

The news of the frontlines caused even more horror. And rage as well.

A lot of young men volunteered for the army. Despite not feeling the desire to fight, Fitz did too. He is tired of being the family disappointment. His father showed proudness for maybe the first time ever, calling him “Brave,” which made Fitz feel all warm and relieved.

But his friend Hunter called him stupid. “There’s nothing heroic about war,” he said. “I’m fighting because I know nothing else. But you could have had a different life, with all your smartness and your talented hands.”

“Yeah. Sure. I could lie under the rubbles the bombers left behind in Glasgow,” Fitz answered dryly, and Hunter said no more. He just continued cleaning his rifle.

Just like he is cleaning it now, his face wearing a concentrated expression. When he notices Fitz watching him, he smiles crookedly. “Beautiful, isn’t it?” He says, making a vague gesture towards the cliffs. “A shame everyone’s going to bomb it soon.”

“Yeah …” Fitz breathes, dipping one hand into the smooth water under him, enjoying the coolness as a sharp contrast to his hot skin. He’s sweating under his uniform. Sweating and shaking.

“Are you scared?” Hunter asks, looking at him knowingly.

Fitz nods. Oh yes. He’s scared. Scared out of his mind. “Are you?” He asks back.

Hunter chuckles. “Sure. I would be an idiot if I wasn’t.” He suddenly gets very serious, staring at Fitz intently. “Listen. When you’re on that beach, you don’t think about being brave and a hero, yeah? You just take care of not getting killed. And if that means you have to hide behind a rock, you’re bloody going to do it, you hear me? Forget your stupid father with his litanies of being strong and proud, Fitz. Just … don’t die out there, alright?”

Fitz looks at Hunter and is surprised to see his eyes filled with sad worry. He swallows. “I’m going to try.” He has a certain feeling in his stomach … A feeling, telling him there’s no getting out alive today. The odds are not in their favour. They have never really been in Fitz’s favour in the first place … His mother died when he was a little child, and since then he has been raised by his father, who thinks it is important to teach children respect. He liked to use his belt buckle for that. _Pain is the most effective teacher_ , he used to say. _It stays in the memory._

It did. Even now, Fitz involuntarily touches his back, where a few scars hide. He has always been missing his mum. Wished, they would have gotten more time together. He barely remembers more than her voice. But soon, nothing is going to matter anymore anyway. His memories are going to vanish with him. He’s going to be one of many bodies on the shore, being washed clean by the saltwater.

Fitz perks up, when orders are passed around. 

Suddenly, time passes incredibly fast now. They are getting closer to their destination. Closer to chaos. To death. There’s no going back now. Operation Overlord is in progress. The soldiers duck, to cover themselves. Fitz’s blood runs cold as he hears the first rows of shots in close distance. Some of the boats must have already landed at the shore. That means, the killing and dying has already begun. He closes his eyes for a moment, trying to focus on calming his breath. “Almost there,” Hunter whispers beside him, and Fitz opens his eyes again to look at him. “Remember,” Hunter tells him, rubbing his back. “Stay alive.”

“You too,” Fitz breathes, and then they’re there. Everyone starts running. Fitz moves with them like in trance.

He walks right into a mess. 

Later, Fitz doesn’t remember much of it. Not at first. The memories will come back gradually, in nightmares and flashbacks. There is shooting, explosions, screaming. There’s a lot of water and it turns red in front of Fitz’s eyes.

People are falling around him. Like puppets with cut through strings. There’s a guy, laying on his side, screaming and holding his stomach, which is a bloody red mass. Beside him lays another guy, staring blankly at his arm. His hand is gone.

There’s Hunter and he’s shouting, but Fitz can’t hear the words through the high-pitched ringing in his ears. He sees Hunter lifting his rifle and shooting.

Fitz already dropped his weapon. He can’t feel his body. He can’t breathe. He can’t move. He can’t … There’s a low whistling. Hunter stares at Fitz, his eyes widening. He pushes Fitz, hard. Makes him stumble backwards and fall. He hits his head on a rock. But before he can even register the pain, something lands in the sand in front of him. Grenade, his blurry mind tells him. Grenade. You have to get away.

That’s what Hunter’s shouting, he realizes. He can finally hear the words, as everything else turns ghostly silent. “Run! Fitz, run!”

Fitz scrambles over the sand, desperately trying to get up, but everything’s swaying around him. The next moment, there’s an explosion and the force of it pushes him forward. There’s pain and then there isn’t. He lies in the sand, the waves hitting his face. He stares up at the sky and sees planes instead of seagulls. He stares up at the sky and when darkness creeps into his field of vision from all sides, he knows that is it. He’s going to die.

 _I tried_ , is his last coherent thought.

_I tried.  
  
_

* * *

  
Fitz isn’t dead but he also doesn’t feel much alive.

When he first opens his eyes, he wishes he could close them again and fall back asleep. Everything is pain. Bright hot burning pain. It pulses through his whole body and makes it hard for him to breathe. A feeling of confusion and fear is joining the pain, as he notices he can’t feel or move his legs. His hands are feeling strange too. 

He tries to ask blurry persons passing by, if they could tell him what happened, but they just shake their heads and say something in a strange language, which his mind identifies as French. French … Fitz always thought it was a beautiful language. He has learned a few words since they landed there, but it isn’t enough to understand what is said to him. It was enough to humour Hunter and to thank the elderly people who gave them some bread and tea. "Bonjour", “Merci beaucoup.” It is a difficult language and the words twisted on his tongue when he tried to speak it, but the elderly couple laughed and told him “Trés bien”, smiling warmly. They were nice.

When he starts to get used to the ever-present pain and his mind clears a bit, Fitz realizes he’s laying on a bed in a huge tent. On both sides are a countless other beds. Must be a sickbay, he figures.

There’s a lot of shouting around him. Some guy is crying for his mother, his voice getting weaker and hoarser with the time.

A lot of people in white clothes run from bed to bed, speaking in loud, quick French. Whenever someone gets to Fitz, he tries to ask them what’s going on and what’s wrong with him, but they just smile at him and shake their heads. Then they start to probe at his legs and the pain intensifies to a point where Fitz can’t even scream. He just sobs, pressing an arm over his face and waiting for it to stop. They give him a cup of water then, with a pill dissolving in it. Fitz figures it’s meant to be painkillers, but they can’t be very strong, because the pain stays.

He eventually tries to take a look at his legs, but he can barely move. They are covered with a thin blanket anyway. But when he manages to raise his head a bit, he sees spots of red on it. He feels nauseous and quickly lays back down, closing his eyes.

One day, the soldier beside him is losing his injured leg. Fitz gets a glimpse of the amputation and almost vomits. They give the man a belt to bite on, but he passes out during the operation anyway. They wheel the soldier away afterwards and Fitz never sees him again. Instead, another soldier gets the bed beside him. He looks messed up and has bandages wrapped around his head, his arms and one leg, but otherwise he seems to do pretty fine.

“Where have you been, kiddo?” He asks one evening, and Fitz is so happy to hear coherent English, he answers despite his exhaustion. “Normandy,” he murmurs.

“Damn,” the man says, grimacing. “Operation Overlord?”

Fitz just nods.

“Well, I can tell you, it was a bloody success,” the man barks, laughing bitterly. “Sorry for the pun.”

“So, they managed to take the beach?” Fitz asks. He thinks of Hunter and his stomach twists. 

“Oh yeah. A lot of people think this invasion could mark the start of the end of this war, but I wouldn’t want to bet,” the man says, shaking his head. “I’m Ed, by the way.” He actually reaches out his hand, offering it to Fitz. Fitz smiles weakly. “Sorry … I can’t,” he says, trying to move his hand but wincing when a spark of white hot pain shoots through it. Ed grimaces in sympathy and pats his shoulder instead.

The next days, Fitz manages to stay awake longer and talks to Ed, who seems happy to have someone to share information with. Ed tells Fitz about his family at home. Two little sons, one daughter. He is sending them letters. He doesn’t think he’s going to see them in person ever again, he says soberly.

Fitz finds that sad. At least he himself didn’t have a lot to lose … His father would barely shed a tear because of him.

One day, a few people crowd around Fitz’s bed, looking at his legs and talking to him in French. He barely understands a word. They hand him his “medication”, and disappear soon after, moving to another bed. Fitz stares after them, confused and worried.

“From what I’ve gotten out of this, they’re getting you back home,” Ed tells him, grinning. “You’re lucky, kiddo. War’s over for you.”

Fitz sighs and looks at his bandaged hands. “My father won’t appreciate.”

Ed scoffs. “He better should. He should be glad you’re still alive. This war is even madder than the last one. Well. At least we know what we’re fighting for this time, but I don’t know if anyone will still be alive to celebrate when it’s over. I figure the next battle is going to be my last. I can’t go on much longer. Seeing all these pictures in front of my eyes, when they’re open and when they’re closed …” He stops, looking haunted. “Go home and be glad you’re alive. Maybe there’s a better future laying ahead for you and my kids. Maybe.” He turns around and falls silent.

Fitz bites his lip and lays back down as well, staring at the ceiling, not able to sleep for a while, as the thoughts are racing in his head.  
  


* * *

Fitz can’t believe what he sees, when the train full of injured soldiers drives slowly through the city, or rather, what’s left of it. Heaps of rubbles everywhere. The buildings are ruins, missing whole walls or their roofs. It smells of fire and smoke. 

“I wish I could go back and make these bastards pay for bombing our cities,” a soldier beside Fitz growls, rubbing his arm, that’s in a brace. One of his legs is in one too.

Fitz wants to point out, that the allies are already bombing German cities which also kills a lot of innocent people, but he rather stays silent. This war is madness, just like Ed said. Who knows how long the suffering will go on until it’s over.

He looks around, at the men standing or laying around him, all severely injured. Some are missing limbs, some have brain damage, staring straight ahead with hazy eyes. One guy is missing an eye and he’s constantly touching the bandage there, as if he can’t believe it’s really gone. 

When the train stops, everyone starts to slowly get out. Some men in white clothes start to help the most severely injured out.

Although his legs are screaming in protesting pain, Fitz tries to get up from his gurney by himself, only to fall back against the pillows immediately, breathing heavily. His whole body is trembling and he’s sweating. “Take it easy, son,” one of the men in white says gently, laying a hand on Fitz’s shoulder. “We’re here to help.”

They wheel him out and when he looks around, Fitz can see people standing around the train, all wearing a hopeful-scared expression on their hollow faces. Relatives or friends, Fitz figures with a sharp pang of pain in his chest. They’re hoping their loved ones are coming home.

He is wheeled past the waiting people and into a building he quickly recognizes as a makeshift hospital. It’s more of a big hall, but there are countless beds again, this time separated through thin curtains. The men help him on a bed and disappear soon after, telling him someone is going to see him soon.

Fitz sighs and wipes over his sweaty face with a bandaged hand, wincing because of the annoying pulse of pain that follows. He hates this. He hates that he was not able to get out of the train by himself. He hates that he failed on the battlefield. He hates that his father is going to know he failed. He hates this war. He hates himself. 

In a rush of hot anger, Fitz slaps one of his hands against his legs and hisses in pain. Stupid, stupid, stupid …

“That’s not going to help much, you know?” A quiet woman’s voice says beside him. Fitz looks up, right into the face of a young woman in white clothes. She smiles, and it makes her hazel eyes sparkle. "My name is Jemma Simmons, I’m going to take a look at your injuries, if I may,” she tells him.

Fitz just nods. The words are stuck in his throat. He watches as Jemma sits on the chair beside his bed and takes one of his hands into hers, starting to remove the bandage. What appears under it, is burned scarred skin. Fitz’s stomach drops. This is the first time he sees one of his injuries. He blinks and hears Jemma saying something he doesn’t understand. He feels his stomach revolting and quickly turns, vomiting on the ground. He remains bend over, breathing heavily, grimacing at the sour taste in his throat. Suddenly, there’s a hand on his shoulder, warm and soft. Comforting.

“It’s going to be alright,” Jemma tells him, her voice gentle. “You’re alive. It’s going to be alright.”

Fitz clings to her words desperately, reaching for them like for an anchor.

* * *

It takes a while until Fitz can process Jemma’s information on the state of his body. He suffered second and even third degree burns on his hands, arms and back. His legs were pierced by a shower of shrapnel pieces. A lot of them still have to be removed. His left shinbone is broken. Due to his head injury he had a concussion which is mostly gone now.

Jemma tells him he’s going to have to re-learn certain things. Like walking. He will have to re-gain muscle mass and body weight.

“Will I be able to go back to fight?” Fitz asks her.

Jemma looks at him surprised and a bit sad. “Do you want to go back?” She asks.

No. No he doesn’t want to. But … His father …

“Just tell me. Please,” he murmurs, looking at his hands.

Jemma bites her lip. “No,” she says softly. “No, you won’t be able to go back into battle. It will take you months to recover, Fitz.”

“So, I’m useless,” he states bitterly.

Jemma sighs. She reaches out, taking one of his bandaged hands into hers carefully. Fitz looks up at her surprised. “No, you’re not useless. Fitz, I think you should be glad to be alive. Don’t you think you got a second chance? There’s a lot you can do, beside fighting.”

Fitz swallows. He wants to tell her he appreciates her comforting words. But he can’t. She doesn’t know … She doesn’t understand. His father …

He softly pulls his hand out of her grasp and tries to smile at her. “Thank you,” he murmurs, laying back and closing his eyes.

He hears Jemma breathing beside him for a while longer, until she leaves, mumbling a soft “Goodbye” and pulling the curtain shut.

* * *

Time passes.

Fitz doesn’t know how much. He doesn’t want to know. He thinks, he falls right into a depression. Nothing feels like it matters. Food is tasteless. Water is like sand in his throat. Sometimes, the pain is so strong, it makes him cry. Sometimes, it disappears for a while, almost like it wants to mock him, wants to make him feel false relieve, before it comes back stronger.

The only light, almost happy moments now, are moments when Jemma comes to see him. Her touch always gentle, her voice light and her words encouraging. Fitz looks at her and it’s like he looks into the sun. Her smile almost never falters, although there are moment, when she looks so tired and exhausted, he almost wants to tell her to rest. Sometimes, when she seems to think no one notices, she hides her face in both hands and takes some deep breaths. Fitz can imagine, how scarring it must be, to see all these wounds, to hear all these cries and prayers. To see young men die, maybe even right under her careful hands.

In these moments, he feels the strange strong urge to take her in his arms, to shield her. To be a safe haven, like she already is for him.

And for some reason, Jemma seems to seek out his presence. Once, he wakes up from a nightmare – it’s the shore. Always the shore. The images come back to him. - to see her sitting in front of his bed, reading a book. She looks up when he tries to take some deep breaths and shifts on the bed only to whimper on pain. “Are you alright?” She asks, worried.

Fitz nods, wiping a hand over his sweaty face. “Yeah, just … you know. A dream.”

She hums in sympathy, lowering her book. Fitz got a glimpse of the cover. It’s about chemistry. “Do you want to talk about it?” She asks.

Fitz shakes his head. God. No. He just wants to forget it.

“It might help,” Jemma encourages. But Fitz instead asks, “Are you studying chemistry?”

Jemma blinks in surprise, but then she chuckles. “Oh. You read the title of my book. Well. I wanted to. I wished to study biochemistry actually, but, well … The war. And the chances for women are still bad anyway.” She shrugs.

Fitz nods. “I wanted to study too. Before the war. Engineering. I’m good with my hands. Well. I was.” He looks at them sadly. “Maybe,” he adds, “You can start to study when the war is over.”

“I hope so. But you too. The burns won’t keep you from working with your hands. You just have to gain some fine motor skills back later,” Jemma tells him, smiling.

“You think so?” Fitz asks, feeling a careful hint of hope.

She nods. “Yes.”

Fitz sighs. “It would be amazing to be able to do something I want to do for once.”

Jemma frowns. “What do you mean?”

Fitz hesitates. He really doesn’t want to annoy her with his worries. But … She looks at him so open and waiting, the smile still lingering. He has never talked about this with anyone besides Hunter. “My father,” he says carefully, “He is … Well. He doesn’t want a weak son. He wants a soldier. Brave and strong and … ruthless. He always tried to get me to do, uh, what he called manly things. I wanted to make him proud for once. But now, I’m basically a cripple and he won’t be happy if I tell him I want to study rather than staying in the army.”

Jemma inhales sharply. Suddenly, she looks angry. “But … it’s your life, Fitz. Not the life of your father! You should decide what you do with it. Did he … Oh Fitz, did you only join the army and go to the Normandy because of him?!”

“Well … Yes,” Fitz says, feeling nervous.

Jemma gasps. “What an idiot!” She says so loud, someone beside them makes a startled noise in their sleep and Fitz winces. Jemma lowers her voice again, but her eyes are still sparkling in anger. “Listen, Fitz, if he comes and tell you you’re weak, just tell him to go and leave you alone! You’re not a child, he doesn’t have any power over you. He can’t make decisions for you. You saw what it means to be a soldier. Is that what you want to do with your life? After basically getting a second chance, you want to throw it away?”

Fitz swallows. “Not really …”

Jemma smiles at him. “I think so too. You’re … I like you, Fitz. I really do.”

He blinks, feeling surprised. “I like you too,” he says quietly, blushing a bit.

A moment of slightly awkward silence develops between them, until Jemma says softly, “Well, when you’re feeling better … Do you think we could go out, someday? Oh … that’s so unprofessional, sorry!” She says, hiding her face in her hands.

But Fitz feels his chest glowing with warm happiness, that makes the pain almost disappear. _She likes me. She likes me!_

“I would like that,” he says quietly.

She smiles at him again, and he smiles back. “Now go back to sleep,” she tells him sternly, opening her books again. “You need the rest.”

He obeys, closing his eyes, still feeling happy. He thinks Jemma asking him out is definitely the best thing that happened to him.

Of course, the next day has to be horrible …

* * *

In the afternoon, Alistair Fitz storms into the hall and demands to speak to his son. When Fitz hears his voice, his stomach drops. So, this is it. What he has feared is going to happen. He can hear heavy steps approach his bed and tries to brace himself.

Alistair rips the curtain open and walks to Fitz, his lips a thin grim line. He’s frowning and his cold ice-blue eyes are scanning Fitz sharp and thoroughly. “Son,” he says curtly, his voice as firm as usual.

Fitz swallows and feels himself getting smaller. “Father.”

Alistair crosses his arms. “So. Here you are. Your first battle and you’re already laying in a bed. What did you do? Did you freeze?” He asks, his eyes narrowing. 

Fitz really wanted to do what Jemma told him. But it’s hard to be brave, when you lie in a bed, injured and your father is staring down at you. “I … I tried. I ….”

Alistair scoffs. “Look at you, stuttering like an idiot. I didn’t raise a coward or a weakling, did I?”

“No,” Fitz breathes. “I’m sorry, father.”

Alistair shakes his head. “You better get your useless ass back on the battlefield, because I’m not going to take you home like this and coddle you. There are soldiers – our people! – defending our country and honour, dying on battlefields, while you lay in a bed, whining because some minor injuries!” He reaches out and pulls the blanket from Fitz’s legs, staring at them. Fitz resists the urge to hide somewhere. His stomach aches and he starts to feel sick. He know exactly, he won’t be able to return to the frontlines. Well-known shame and guilt are suffocating him …

“Sir,” a tight voice suddenly says from behind them.

Jemma approaches them so abruptly; Fitz is certain she heard a lot of the conversion and his stomach aches even more. To his surprise, Jemma looks right at Alistair and crosses her arms. “Excuse me sir, you have to leave,” she says sternly.

Alistair’s brows go up. “Who are you, girl, to tell me what to do?”

Jemma raises her chin. She looks fierce. “I’m a nurse here. My patients need rest and silence to heal. You cause a lot of stress with your yelling. Please leave. I can have you removed if you don’t go willingly.”

Alistair glares at her. He looks like he’s going to say something else, but to Fitz’s surprise, he shrugs and turns to leave. But before he does, he glances back at Fitz, narrowing his eyes. “Better get on your legs again soon. Every man is doing his best to fight the Nazis. I don’t want people to talk about my own son being not capable of doing his part. Get yourself together.”

Fitz just nods and lowers his head. But suddenly, he hears a loud scoff and perks up, staring in surprise, as Jemma approaches Alistair with her arms still tightly crossed over her chest and her eyes shooting daggers. “How dare you speak to your son like this, if you weren’t even there on that day? Do you have any idea, what happened on that day? They jumped out of the boats and ran on a beach which was guarded from all sides. They were shot at, there were mines in the sand, there were planes in the sky. You have no idea what horrors they endured! You sent your son into that hell and now you demand he goes back? He’s severely injured and it’s not even sure he will ever be able to use his legs and hands fully again. Shame on you for talking to him like this!”

Alistair looks her up and down, shaking his head. “You’ll never get a man, young girl,” he scoffs. “Not with that behaviour.”

“Everyone gets what they deserve,” Jemma answers coolly.

Alistair grits his teeth. He shifts his weight and Fitz almost thinks he’s going to raise his hands against her, which makes him feel hot raging anger. “Don’t you dare touch her,” he barks, sitting up in bed despite the pain. “She’s right. You have no right to call me a coward or weak. I only volunteered because I wanted to make you proud. But I should have long realized that nothing I do can satisfy you. You don’t even try.”

Alistair’s eyes widen. “I see I should have taught you more respect! How dare you to speak to me like this?”

“You didn’t teach me respect, you beat me,” Fitz says, clenching a burning hand into a fist. “You don’t deserve me. Now leave.”

Alistair opens his mouth, but he seems to think it isn’t worth it. So he just scoffs, turning around and going away. “Don’t ever come to me for money or anything,” he calls back over his shoulder. “I don’t have a son.”

Jemma and Fitz stare after him, until a door slams shut.

Jemma looks at Fitz. “Are you alright?” She asks softly.

Fitz nods. “Yeah. I’m fine.” Actually, it really feels great to finally have said something. He will be alright, even without his father’s support. He’ll figure something out.

* * *

Their first kiss happens, when the war is over. 

It's a shy kiss. Soft and careful. But it's there. They share it on the street, watching the world around them changing in a heartbeat.

People are celebrating on the street.

There are planes flying in the sky, spreading confetti in the air instead of dropping bombs on houses.

Fitz supports himself on his crutches and smiles when Jemma locks arms with him. She looks so beautiful, her cheeks flushed a soft red, her eyes sparkling in a warm honey-brown in the sun. She’s wearing a lovely yellow dress. Fitz thinks she looks happy. Which makes him happy. Finally, he thinks, she can leave the hospital, can try to live her dreams. Fitz hopes, he can someday find the strength to try that too.

“Fitz,” Jemma says to him, her voice shaking as she watches people singing, dancing and laughing, “The future has just begun.”

“I know,” Fitz says softly, feeling an aftershock of pain, mingled with hope.

So much suffering … So many people dead or injured. The earth is soaked with blood.

So many memories. They haunt them almost every night. Jemma awakes gasping, remembering a young man dying under her hands. Fitz holds her.

Fitz awakes crying out, remembering bloody water, explosions and shouting. Jemma holds him.

They are healing slowly.

Fitz regained a lot of control over his body back, though the pain is still ever-present. Especially on rainy days, his whole body aches. 

But he isn’t alone.

Not anymore.

They will make it somehow. It isn’t perfect. It won’t be perfect for a long time. There are going to be difficult times. But there’s hope. They’re alive and therefore they can dream.

It’s going to be okay.

**Author's Note:**

> Translation:  
> "Merci beaucoup" - Thank you very much  
> "Bonjour" - Hello  
> "Trés bien" - Very good


End file.
